


Writer's Block

by arcaneGash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:27:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneGash/pseuds/arcaneGash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose briefly struggles with the most serious problem to plague all of humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writer's Block

You and Rose are seated across the room from each other. Terezi, desiring a cape, had somehow alchemized what looked more like a bright red, seven-foot-long potato sack, and you were busying yourself with fixing it and maybe tweaking it so you considered it somewhat acceptable to wear (even being a rainbow drinker has not made your eyes immune to the searing color). Rose is frantically scribbling something down on her notepad with her favorite pen. You don’t pay her much attention until she suddenly begins tearing pieces of paper off of the pad like an animal devouring prey. She crumples them and tosses them on the ground. Still you are able to absorb yourself in your work until she starts making disgruntled noises, grumbles and growls as she throws more sheets of paper on the floor. As her frustration escalates, so do her complaints as they become intelligible words. She laughs humorlessly at what she’s writing before she chucks it across the room. “Mediocrity,” she says at one point, and you fear she’s about to rip the paper with her teeth next. “What in the hell did I just write?” she asks a few minutes later, her voice dripping with venom. You begin to wonder if you should intervene, but you know she gets like this sometimes.  
“I should seriously consider investing in a laptop,” she says loudly, and it takes you a moment to realize she’s speaking to you. You look up, and she’s shaking her head, looking disdainfully at the balls of paper haphazardly resting around her. “A typewriter would even be better than this.”  
You agree cautiously, making a mental note to investigate what a human typewriter is, then you return to squinting at your cherry red abomination.  
Rose is silent for a few minutes, but so is her pen. You can practically feel her frustration pressing down on you. She gets up and paces, which you try not to pay attention to. You doubt knowing she has an audience will ease her nerves. Finally her footsteps come to a halt, and she’s standing in front of you and your work, a frown creasing her face. “Have you heard of writer’s block, Kanaya?” she asks.  
The question somewhat catches you off guard. “Am I making a safe assumption that you are suffering quite badly from this particular malady?”  
“You could say that,” she says, turning her eyes away from you and seeming to stare into space. “But that didn’t exactly answer my question. I don’t seem to be getting a lot of answers anyway.”  
You figure this is a cryptic and unnecessary reference to her predicament, and you have the good sense not to say so. She saves you from replying by continuing with her thoughts. “It’s like…you have all the materials and everything you need to make the most beautiful clothes you’ve ever made. But there’s something in the way of that, and no matter how you try to avoid this obstacle, it doesn’t budge. You know that somewhere in the recesses of your mind, there is the final product, and it’s breathtaking, and you feel prideful for having a hand in its creation. The problem is, not only does it not exist, you don’t know what it looks like. At all.”  
You turn this situation over a little in your mind and shrug. “I suppose I have had a small taste of this feeling. But I doubt to the extent you are currently experiencing it.”  
She nods without really seeming invested. “It’s a horrible thing, really. Every stitch takes an inordinate amount of thought, and once you put a lot of them together, you realize they’re the wrong type or you put them in the wrong place or they just don’t seem right, and you have to start all over again. Such catastrophic errors occur over and over again until you feel like taking a baseball bat to your sewing machine.”  
You shake your head vigorously, hoping this is not part of her plan for curing herself. She doesn’t appear to notice, too entangled inside her own mind.  
“You’ve really never experienced it before? It might be a human-only thing, though I would be surprised if it were,” she muses. “I believe it is a safe assumption that every human involved in the arts has suffered from a form of creative block. Aside from a few differences in anatomy and a multitude in culture, humans and trolls really are not all that different.”  
You nod, not paying her as much attention as you feel you should be, trying to do something even remotely productive with this hideous pile of bright fabric.  
“You are truly blessed if that is the case. I have had to deal with a lot of infuriating things, and writer’s block is still one of the highest-ranking problems that plague me. That…is kind of an immature thing to say, but I suppose that doesn’t make it any less true. Perhaps I am the immature one.”  
You are just barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. “Rose,” you say sharply, and she looks up in a mix of confusion and slight irritation. You stand up and approach her, affixing a scowl to your face that you are positive doesn’t reach your eyes. Even so, she looks less annoyed than alarmed now, and you hope you aren’t scaring her.  
“Kanaya?” she asks, seconds before you take her by the shoulders, press her against the wall a short distance behind her, and kiss her. She returns it much more eagerly than you expected. It is several long moments before you break away, slightly embarrassed.  
“I apologize,” you say, “for being so forward and…impulsive. Usually I am not so subject to such capricious actions—“  
She cuts you off with the first smile you’ve seen from her in a long time, and you cannot prevent yourself from smiling as well when you see how the light reaches her lavender eyes. You hope you’re not glowing out of bashfulness.  
“You don’t need to apologize, Kanaya,” she says in a light voice. “I think I know what to write now.”  
She strolls across the room, picks up her notepad and pen, and begins to write without pausing for a very long time, during which you rub your temples and glare at Terezi’s useless monstrosity of a cape. You don’t even notice when Rose sneaks up behind you and rubs the base of your horns, eliciting an embarrassingly loud and accidentally sexual moan from you. You clap your hands over your mouth and eye the doorway, half expecting Karkat, or worse Dave, to be watching and armed with witty commentary. Or panicked screaming.  
“Exactly,” Rose says into your ear. “Would you care to help me edit my writing?”

**Author's Note:**

> you'll never guess what inspired me to write this  
> (hint: it's writer's block aren't i original)  
> i know there isn't a lot of actual shippy stuff in this but i'm getting there


End file.
